Lizz Lund - Mina Kitchen 01 - Kitchen Addiction! (44 page)

“Sure
doesn’t explain the IP address or the Packet Sniffers,” Bauser mused.  “Whatcha
doin’?”

“Not
much.  Spitting into the sink,” I answered.

“Want
to get a pizza and watch some sci-fi?” Bauser asked.

“Yeah,
okay.  You coming over?”

“Sure. 
Hey, any word from Vito about his niece lately?” Bauser asked.  Aha.

“No,
why, you interested?” I asked.

“No,
just curious.”

We
hung up, and I dialed PizzaNow! and ordered a Meat! Meat! Meat! & More
Meat! Personal Pie for Bauser and Jim, and a thin crust veggie white pie for
me.   And some garlic sticks.  And salad.  And hot wings.  And a cheesecake.
After all, I wasn’t sure how long they’d be here, right?  And Jim might be
hungry.

Bauser
showed up in tandem with the PizzaNow! delivery guy.  Really.  There was a
vehicular stand-off at the bottom of my driveway.   I went out, waved Bauser up
and then the pizza delivery guy.  This turned out good because Bauser paid. 
But then I felt guilty.  This is bad because guilty pizza is not tasty pizza. 
But free pizza is.

Bauser
took the pies and walked toward the house.  I pulled some cash out of my
pocket.

“No
problemo, Toots,” Bauser said ala Vito.  “I’m still rolling in Norman cash.”

“Did
you make him lose another bet about another one of his step-daughters?” I
asked.

“Wasn’t
much of a bet,” he said, shrugging.

We
went up the front walk, and I was about to go inside when I heard hissing from
the bushes.

“Psss!
Psss!”

I
looked around.

“Over
here, Toots,” Vito said. He was perched behind a holly bush.  “Hey, Toots, ya
think we can pick your van up extra early tomorrow?” he asked.  “I got an, uh,
errand to run over at Mrs. Phang’s,” he explained, wiggling his eyebrows.  And
his ears.  Apparently they were connected.

“Uh,
sure. What time?”

“Seven-thirty,”
Vito answered.

“Yikes.”

“Sorry,
Toots.  You got big plans tonight?”

“Nope. 
We’re just eating pizza and watching some science-fiction thingy,” I answered.

Vito
looked hopeful.  I sighed.  “Wanna come over?” I asked resolutely.

“Hey,
sure! But I’m not so sure about leaving Stanley home alone again.”

“Why?”

“Because
when I was out, uh… visiting this afternoon, he gnawed a big hole right in the
middle of the kitchen floor.”  I stared at him.  He shrugged.  “It’s okay.  He
pretty much did me a favor.”

“Why?”

“It’s
orange and olive plaid,” he said.

Somewhere
in heaven, Marie hung her head.

Vito
brought over Stanley, and a blender full of cocktails, this time with an Asian
theme.  I identified Vodka and something ginger-ish.   Bauser brought in his
twelve-pack of Krumpthfs.  Jim sniffed Stanley. Stanley snipped at Jim.  Vinnie
watched from an elevated position on the top of my head.

“Hey,
Mina, c’mon, it’s on!” Bauser said, flipper in hand, with Vito next to him on
the sofa.

I
sat down to ‘Ghosts R US’, our usual fare for spectator ghost hunting.

Vinnie
tiptoed off of my head and onto the back of the sofa, keeping a watchful eye on
Stanley

A
little while later, and a few real (or unreal?) ghost stories the wiser, I said
goodnight to the boys, and got myself ready for an uneventful evening’s
slumber.  I actually went upstairs to bed.  Maybe things were looking up.

CHAPTER 15

(Saturday)

The
sleep I
got was
fitful, and interspersed with dreams of kidnapped Ratties, flaming feces, my
pregnant sister (who gave birth to a litter of yapping Hansel and Gretels) and
pierogies.  Eventually I woke up, covered in a film of perspiration, and sat
bolt upright.  It was five-thirty.  I sighed.  I’d set my alarm to go off at
six so there was little point in lying back down.  So I lay back down.

I
looked at the pillow next to me.  Vinnie lay fast asleep, mumbling.  I patted
him and he chirped back at me.  I yawned, stretched and lay flat on my back. 
Then I smelled bacon.

I
opened my eyes.  I still smelled bacon.  Vinnie headbutted my chin.  Apparently
he smelled bacon, too.

I
crept downstairs, flip-flops in hand, ready to clobber whatever bacon cooking
intruder I found with foam rubber.

Looking
in my kitchen, I saw bacon frying simply in a pan.  I shook my head.  Maybe I
hadn’t really gone to sleep?  Was I sleep cooking? Maybe I had my very own
sleeping disorder?  I began to fantasize about hearing people murmuring about
me in hushed tones, “Did you hear about what happened to her? She’s got
MinaKitchens!”

I
looked around. Not only was bacon sizzling, but I also smelled and heard coffee
brewing.  Then a crash came from the basement.  I heard growling.  Then
swearing.  Vito came shuffling up the basement stairs with a laundry basket
full of prescription samples, dragging Stanley along while he hung onto Vito’s
pant leg, as usual.

Vito
got to the top of the steps and put the basket down.  “Morning, Toots,” he said
sheepishly.  Stanley growled hello at me.

Vito
leaned so close toward Stanley I was afraid he would get his nose bit again, so
I put my hands over my eyes.  Vito gave Stanley a directive – in Polish – and Stanley
let go of Vito’s pants and lay belly up, in contrition.  Huh.  I’d hafta ask
Vito what he said.  It might come in handy someday.  Then again, maybe his past
lifetime with the Moils had a legitimate use, after all.

“Sorry,
Toots. I figured you’d be up to get your van and all.  Just thought it’d be a
good idea for you to start your day off with a nice breakfast,” Vito said.

I
shrugged and yawned.

“Okay,
thanks.  Hey, what happened to your crumb bun connection?”  I asked.

“Hey,
a fella’s gotta watch his girlish figure, ya know,” Vito said, cracking an egg
into the pan.

Vito
was blotting off the bacon with a paper towel while Stanley sat pretty.  Vito
pulled a doggie biscuit out of his shirt pocket, and held it out to Stanley.  He took the biscuit, trotted off happily into the living room and began to crunch
crumbs into the carpet.  Vinnie came running down the hall and stared at me,
appalled.

“I
know he’s a dog, but he’s a guest,” I explained.  Vinnie shook the back paw at
me and sauntered toward the basement stairs.  “Okay, how about breakfast?” I
asked.

“Grrrrraht!
Fwnks!” Vinnie trilled.

I
got him his breakfast and threw some Tweetsy Weetsy treats on top, just to keep
the peace.

“I’m
just gonna make a couple of deliveries here, and I’ll be back to take you to
your van later, okay?” Vito asked, sipping his coffee carefully.

“Yip,”
I said, drinking my coffee and wishing it wasn’t so very, very early.

Vito
left, so I figured it was as good a time as any to get ready for the day and
start running around like an idiot.

I
washed and changed into a cute outfit and matching jewelry, and headed
downstairs.   A couple of game shows later, Vito was back and actually knocking
at the front door.  I answered.

“Hey,
Toots! Wow, you look swell,” Vito said.  “You don’t even look like yous has a
tick or nothin’!” He paused, then smacked himself in the forehead.  “Sorry,
Toots; I know how sensitive and all yous are about your epidural challenges and
such,” he said.

“Huh?”

“Epidural
challenges.  Impressive, huh?  Miriam made me a present of a vocabulary
calendar.”

“Epidural
challenges?”

“Yeah,
you knows.  Challenges with your skin and such.”

My
eyes did a tumblesault in their sockets of their own volition.

“Hey,
Vito… I think you might mean epidermis,” I said.

“You
sure?”

“Yeah. 
Epidermis means about your skin.  Epidural is the anesthesia you get in your
spine.”

Vito
blushed.  “Sorry, Toots.  Geesh.  Hey, hows about I run some of my new words by
you before I use them next time?” he asked.

I
pictured a bleak Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary future in front of me, and
suppressed a groan.

“Sure,”
I lied.   After all, I really do want to fit into Lancaster, right?  It just
seemed like the nice thing to do.

“Great!
Hey, we gotta get going! I’m running late!”

Vito
and I tumbled out into the hundreds of degree heat and humidity and quickly
found our way into the air-conditioned Towncar.  I looked over at Vito.  Even
the few moments of walking from my front door to his car had made his collar
turn orange.  I was going to have to talk with Auntie about the political
correctness of discussing fake hair mishaps with Vito.  He might be a pain in
the butt.  And some kind of fugitive.  But no one wishes social humiliation on
anyone.  Except for maybe an ex-husband or two.  That is, according to Auntie.

Vito
pulled into the Prince Street parking garage and found a spot after we helped a
Crown Victoria full of seniors from Saskatchewan navigate the parking ticket
conundrum.  We also advised them that it was best to travel in the same
direction that the arrows pointed, and not the opposite.

After
we helped the confused Canadians, Vito and I parted company.  I looked over my
shoulder as he exited onto Orange Street.

“Hey,
Vito, umm… you gonna need any help bringing your, umm… dry cleaning… back
to the car?” I asked.

Vito
shook his head.  “I got it all taken care of, Toots.  I’m not expecting any new
dry cleaning coming my way anymore, if yous knows what I mean.”  I sighed
gratefully.  Then coughed.  “You okay, Toots?” he asked.

“Yeah,”
I choked.  “Carbon monoxide kinda chokes me up sometimes.”

“Hey,
me too!  Every time I have Pasta Carbonara it always backs up on me the next
day.”

I
hung my head.

Vito
toddled off to Madam Phang’s.  I toddled off across the street toward the fancy
Marriott-style police station to claim my unfancy van.

I
walked up to the Police Department of Oz desk.  A policewoman peered down at
me.  “Who goes there?” she asked.  Or at least that’s how it sounded.

I
replied, “It is only I, Mina the Meek.”

It
must have been the height of the desk.

“State
your business,” the policewoman instructed, ignoring my Wizard of Oz flashback.

“I’ve
come to fetch the Doo-doo,” I said, and kind of curtseyed.  I couldn’t help it.

“It’s
alright, Hazel,” Appletree offered up, from just about Hazel’s belly height.

“Uh,”
she grunted and hopped down off the imperial stool.  “I got to go on break
anyhow,” she said, and sauntered her 3-foot wide girth toward what I guessed
housed a break room.  I wagered a bet with myself that the break room probably
had a state-of-the-art cappuccino and espresso maker as well as a full-time
barista.  What else would fit in with the alabaster walls?

Appletree
sighed.  “It used to be a lot easier,” he said.  I shrugged.

“I’m
here for the Doo-doo,” I said.

“I
know.  Fill this out.” He thrust a form at me that was only few hundred pages
long.

Hazel’s
replacement came while I sat in the very nice waiting area, complete with
Brazilian Cherry counters, filling out the form.  I handed it over to Hazel
II.  Hazel II was the male version of Hazel I, complete with grunts and
instructions.  Well, at least they were consistent.

“Detective
Appletree said he was taking care of this,” I offered.

More
grunts.  Then ringing of intercoms followed by grunted telephone instructions. 
“Wait there,” Hazel II commanded.  I curtseyed again and obliged.

Buzzers
buzzed, doors opened and Appletree entered the lobby.  “C’mon,” he directed,
waving me toward the entrance doors.

I
shrugged and followed him outside.  The temperature out here felt like it was a
thousand degrees.  My sandals stuck to the pavement.  I figured this was
because they were melting.   I checked, and scraped a wad of gum off the
bottom.  I followed Appletree around the corner to the chain-linked impound lot
on the corner of Chestnut and Queen.

Appletree
approached the manned kiosk and showed his badge.  The officer in charge of
baby-sitting impounded cars buzzed us in.  Appletree showed him a ticket, with
a number – which would hopefully indicate the location of the Doo-doo.  The officer
looked up the number in the kiosk records, read the description and groaned. 
“Oh, that one,” he said.

I
sighed.  This did not bode well.

Appletree
and I followed the attending officer to the back of the lot.  By the time we
walked back there, Appletree’s neatly pressed detective shirt was completely
wet across his back, neck and underarms.  And I realized I wasn’t much better. 
Ick.  And there would be no air conditioning in the Doo-doo.  Double ick.

“Here
she is,” the attendant said, gesturing to the Doo-doo.  He produced a
clipboard.  “Sign here for the keys, please.”

I
did as instructed and got the keys for the Doo-doo.  I swatted at the flies
buzzing in and out of my smashed window

“I
can give you a ride back to the station,” I offered Appletree as I opened the
driver side door.  A blast of hot air rolled out at us that was scented with a
thousand turds.

“Uh,
no thanks,” he said, fanning his hand in front of his face.

I
held my nose and peered in.  The Doo-doo was immaculate.  There wasn’t even any
dust.  “Ah dawnt undethwand,” I said, still holding my nose.  “Doo-doo’s weeewy
qween.”

Appletree
didn’t respond.

I
came back out of the Doo-doo and looked around.  Appletree had backed several
feet away, still fanning his face.

“I
don’t get it,” I said, walking toward him.  “The Doo-doo LOOKS really clean;
spotless.”

Appletree
nodded.  “She would; she was dusted for fingerprints within an inch of her
vinyl,” he answered.

“But
why does she have the poopy smell?”

Appletree
shrugged.  “Hey, they remove evidence, not smells.  It’s not like you brought
her here for detailing.”

 “But
now the Doo-doo smells like her name,” I whined.

Appletree
shook his head.  “Look, just roll the windows down and air her out.  She was
probably sitting in the lot for a few days with the poopy bags in her, until
they got around to dusting her.”

“You
mean they left Doo-doo sitting here for days with poopy bags cooking inside
her?”

“Probably,”
Appletree answered, holding his nose and rolling down the van’s windows.  I
sighed and climbed aboard.  Appletree closed my door.  “Here, try this,” he
said, offering me a spray bottle of breath freshener.  I took it and sprayed
some in my mouth.  He shook his head.  “No, not for you.  Here.” He reached
over and sprayed the breath freshener inside the van.  I sniffed.  Great.  Now
the poop was spearmint flavored.

I
started up the Doo-doo and drove out of the lot.  I waved bye-bye to Appletree
who stood chatting with the guard at the kiosk.  They both held their noses and
waved bye-bye back as I exited and turned onto Queen Street.  I made way back
to Orange Street and toward Marietta Avenue, which would take me to Auntie’s.

I
pulled into Auntie’s driveway and did my usual seventy-seven-point-seven turn
to maneuver the Doo-doo around to face forward, and left room for Massage Man
to park.  A lone wasp buzzed toward the smashed window, hovered, then retreated
hastily. Well, at least there was an upside.  The Doo-doo’s new aroma doubled
as wasp repellant.

I
got out and walked over to the garden gnome I’d given Auntie as a house
present. I lifted off his cap and fished around for Auntie’s spare key.  The
gnome is a bit out of place with the rest of Auntie’s décor, but it’s a useful
hiding place.  Then again, there’s no place like gnome.  Ba-dump bump.

 I
opened up the front door, and walked inside.  Auntie’s house was cool and quiet
and full of fresh cut flowers.  As usual.  I sighed.  I love it that Auntie
goes out and buys herself fresh cut flowers.  Even if they are courtesy of
Uncle Max.

I
went into the living room and looked at the erect massage table.  It reminded
me of a people-size ironing board.  How had I ever been comfortable enough to
fall asleep on it?